Although Melodie usually didn't linger at the piano after finishing a lesson with Grace, she found herself doing just that. A particular passage was running through her head and she ran her fingers lightly over the keys, testing it out. As of yet, she hadn't formally started writing the symphony but fragments of themes sometimes popped into her mind at random moments.
Tapping out the newly created melody, her thoughts veered in a completely different direction – Erik. It had been three days since her impromptu visit and she could only assume that he had left, perhaps heading towards Italy, as he had mentioned. Whenever she looked back on that day – and it was almost constantly on her mind – she wondered if she should have approached the situation differently. And if she had, would it have made any difference? It was quite obvious that he was a tortured man, haunted by a past that still claimed him in its tenacious grip. She had never witnessed such raw emotions in a single person before; a cacophonic blend of anger, sorrow, passion, coldness and desperation seeped from his every pore. It was both frightening and fascinating. Her pulse quivered even now when she remembered how he had held her so tightly, his eyes burning with liquid fire so intense, she'd been afraid to breathe.
She was now at a loss as to what to do. Her proposal to live in the man's home had been borne out of desire to work with him, yes, but also out of desperation. With a little over three months to complete the symphony, it would require all of her focus. Though the Annistons treated her wonderfully, she couldn't reveal the nature of her composing to them. And it was true that Grace's lessons were already suffering because of the distraction. She required access to a piano, free reign to write and someone to record the notes – preferably someone who possessed the equivalent of Erik's supreme talents, as she truly would need some aid in the framework of composing such a complex work. Really, was that so much to ask?
The attempt at lightness did not help to ease her mood, only making her sigh with gloomy discontent. Although Erik had never volunteered to assist her beyond the task of writing the notes of her creation, when she had pressed him for more, he'd always delivered beyond her expectations. Their styles were vastly different but that didn't detract from his uncanny ability to understand the essence of what she was trying to accomplish in any phrase or section. When she'd stumbled on particularly troublesome areas, he'd been able to guide her towards her goal or sometimes in completely new directions she'd never even considered.
Her proposition to Erik had not been an easy one to make. She'd had little to no sleep the previous night, tossing and turning every thought in her mind until she'd almost made herself ill. At long last, the deciding factor had not been his impressive technical ability. It had been that brief but momentous glimpse into the very depth of his being, when they'd sat side by side at the piano, taking turns in sharing pieces of their compositions – pieces of themselves. Even now, she could hear the hauntingly beautiful passage so clearly, as if Erik sat hunched beside her like a phantom ghost. His music drew her in as nothing else ever had, forming an invisible link between them. For a while, she'd tried to convince herself that the bond was imagined; that it wasn't worth the effort to attempt to crack his protective outer shell. She understood now that she was only deceiving herself. The connection between them and their music did indeed exist, but it appeared that Erik had decided to sever it before the fragile threads had a chance to truly cohere.
"Melodie?"
Startled by the intrusion, her fingers slipped and an unintentionally discordant chord rang out. Wincing, she looked towards the voice she recognized as the butler. "Yes?"
"Sorry to disturb you. A young lad named Peter is at the door with a message for you. I asked him to leave the note with me but he insisted on delivering it to you in person."
Surprise and hope tugged at her as she rose up from the bench. "Thank you, Robert. I'll take care of it."
As she maneuvered her way through the room and down the main hallway to the front door, she sternly told herself not to get her hopes up. It might simply be a farewell letter from Erik. Perhaps it wasn't even from Erik at all, though she couldn't fathom who else would send Peter here. With a last calming breath, she swung the door open. "Peter?"
"Hello, Melodie," replied the chipper voice. "I brought a letter from Erik."
The textured paper of an envelope was pressed into her waiting hand. "Thank you," she acknowledged. "Is…Erik gone now on his trip?"
"No, he's still there. But he looked really strange."
"Strange?"
"Yeah. His clothes were all wrinkled and he had hair on his face, kind of like my dad, but not as thick. I thought maybe he was sick but he said he wasn't. He says you need to read the letter and then write back to him. Will it take you long?"
"Oh, uh…" A little flustered, she took a few seconds to respond coherently. "I'm not sure. Could you come back in a half hour? I should have something for you by then."
"All right. I'll be back."
She heard him hop down the steps, the scurrying sound of his small feet soon fading into the distance. With more haste than she usually walked about with, she rushed up the stairs and into her chambers, closing the door securely behind her. The curtains had already been parted this morning, allowing every possible bit of light to flood the room. Taking a seat at her desk, she picked up the envelope with both hands, slowly lifting it higher until her name was legible. It was written in a large, loopy hand and she allowed herself a tiny smile, thinking that he knew her name after all.
Tearing into it, she withdrew and unfolded the single sheet, once again positioning it fairly close to her eyes. However, she was pleasantly surprised to find the handwriting overly large once again. It had been a thoughtful gesture on his part, knowing that reading was a painful strain on her vision. With an almost nervous anticipation, she read.
Dear Melodie,
I apologize for the lengthy time that has passed since our last meeting but I have had much to consider. I will not bore you with the details of the convoluted means to which I came to a decision. All you need know is that one has been made but the final decision rests with you. After my abominable behaviour, you might have reconsidered the wisdom of your proposition. I assure you, I am capable of behaving like a gentleman. However, in the interest of honesty, which seems so important to you, I feel I must warn you that I possess a temper. It has not reared itself often as of late but when it does, it can be wholly unpleasant, as you yourself have witnessed. It is ingrained within me, I'm afraid, so I shall make no promises that it will never reappear again. I do humbly promise, however, that I shall strive to remain the gentleman in your presence.
I would be honoured to work with you in the writing of your symphony. Should you still wish to reside with me, I shall require five days in which to ready my home. Please make your choice known in a letter and give it to Peter.
Should this be our final correspondence, I wish you well in your endeavours.
Cordially,
Erik
P.S. I have chosen to use the French spelling of your name, which is more pleasing to my eye. I hope this does not offend.
In total, she read the letter three times in succession before finally putting it down, her face flushed with a combination of excitement and anxiety. He had actually accepted! Although she had been hopeful he would, it still came as somewhat of a shock. Now the final choice was hers alone to make. Could she really go through with this fantastic plan?
Reaching down, she slid open the drawer and removed a sheet of letter paper, ink, and her pen. She sat unmoving for many minutes, one elbow braced on the desk and gripping the slim writing instrument fiercely until her fingers grew numb. Still, she wrote not a word, chewing methodically on her inner lip. At last, dipping into the well of ink, she began to write.
Dear Erik,
Thank you for your letter and granting my request. After considerable thought, I have decided that my proposal is much too forward and foolish. I'm not sure what possessed me to even consider…
The familiar scratching of pen to paper came to a halt as she stared at the fresh, wet ink; where the nib jabbed into the grainy surface, a black stain bled, spreading outwards in a thin trail.
Mellie, you weak-kneed coward.
Angry with herself, she yanked open the drawer and withdrew yet another sheet of paper. Slamming it shut, her fingers jammed between the edges of wood, sending shooting pains through the sensitive digits.
"Bloody hell!" she yelped, her other hand frantically clawing at the round knob of the drawer until it jerked open. Leaping to her feet, she spun around, cradling her injured hand against her chest. When the acute, sparkling pain subsided to a manageable ache, she flexed her fingers and found they all wiggled as they should. Cursing her carelessness, she flounced once more onto the chair, took pen in hand and proceeded to write with a non-stop frenzy. When she'd finished, her forehead was damp, her cheeks no doubt rosy with a heated flush. Not even sure of what she'd written, she thought it prudent to read it over.
Dear Erik,
I am very pleased that you have decided to grant my request and would be honoured to take residence with you while we work together. I sense that you are an intensely private person and know this cannot have been an easy decision for you. I do have one request to make in the interest of honesty between us. Please do not feel that you must tread so carefully in my presence. I am well aware of your temper but understand that it is just one facet of your complex nature. I would not wish for you to act anything but yourself in your own home. I wholeheartedly believe that we must be true to ourselves in order for our partnership to reach its full potential. I hope you feel the same.
I shall arrive at your door in five days. Should you require additional time, please send word via Peter. I look forward to embarking on this project with you.
Sincerely,
Melodie
P.S. As you can see, your chosen spelling of my name is correct. Henry has always held a fondness for all things French, unlike most of the British. I hope this does not offend.
Melodie regarded her own writing with a raised eyebrow; the strokes were spiky and sloppy, most unlike her usual careful penmanship. But the words were above all else, honest and spoken from the heart.
As she inserted the letter into an envelope, her hand trembled just a touch, betraying the nervous energy that tingled through her blood. She was really going through with this!
Shivering with a tense delight, she made the final markings on the front of the envelope with a bold and deliberate flourish: Erik.
The name invoked a myriad of sensations that twirled like a jewelled kaleidoscope in her mind: His deep, lyrical voice. The sorrowful, beautiful strains of his music. Warm hands that offered both comfort and brute strength. His unique smell of clean and spicy masculinity.
The dizzying and fragmented flashes finally came to rest on the hypnotic beauty of his eyes – the window into his soul. Only twice had she seen them; the first time coldly judgmental, the last time filled with such anguished despair, she'd been frightened for him. What could he have done in the past to inflict himself with such unimaginable suffering?
Although she would undoubtedly come to understand more about Erik over the course of the next few months, she wondered if that answer would ever be revealed.
And perhaps, she conceded, in the spirit of ultimate honesty, she did not wish to know the answer.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
As the carriage lurched along at a steady pace, Henry stared out the window at the passing scenery. Though the countryside was quaintly picturesque with its rolling green hills dotted with farmhouses and the occasional herd of fluffy sheep, he saw none of it.
Instead, he found himself reanalysing Melodie's letter in his mind, turning and examining it from every angle like some ancient relic in a historian's hands. What on earth was she thinking, moving in with a strange man? He understood that they had worked together on the composition for Mrs. Grayson, but how did one make the leap from that partnership to living in the man's home? Not only was it completely scandalous but potentially dangerous as well. She couldn't possibly know him well enough to warrant such utter trust.
Henry supposed he was partially at fault for helping to cultivate her trusting nature. She'd led a sheltered life, thanks mostly to his desire to shield her from life's harsher elements, but also due to their living arrangements. Her whole world had revolved around the Wentworth home. School had not been an option, so he had taught her to read and write. Heading the staff of the household was a full time position and thus, regrettably, he'd often left her to her own devices. She never seemed to mind the solitude, finding refuge in her bountiful imagination and of course, her music. When David started receiving lessons from a private tutor, Albert generously allowed her to participate as well. Like a thirsty sponge, she soaked up knowledge in history, geography, literature, and even a little French. Though none of these subjects were of any practical use, it still pleased him to know her horizons were being expanded, if only in the academic sense.
As she grew older, she still chose to remain close to home. The notable exception was their semi-regular outings to the theatre. She had no social life to speak of, no close friends, and yet she seemed to prefer it that way. So long as she had her music, she claimed never to be lonely.
With a slight sigh, Henry reached into the inner pocket of his coat and removed her letter. Although he could almost recite it from memory, he chose to peruse it once more.
Dearest Henry,
What I am about to write will come as a shock to you. Do find a spot to sit down before you begin. Are you seated? Good. It has been three days since I moved out of the Anniston's home, under the guise of accepting a teaching position at a boarding school. I did not tell you of my plans in advance because I did not want to worry you. I write this letter from the new home of my temporary residence. I have asked Erik to work with me in the writing of the symphony and he has accepted. He has also graciously allowed me to reside in his home while we work together. It is the only way we will be able to complete it in time for the grand opening of the theatre.
I am aware of how highly unconventional this must seem to you, but I truly feel it is a necessity in order for the symphony to be successful. Above all else, that is what is most important to me. Please do not think any less of me. I have always had your support in the past and would find any disapproval on your part a heavy burden to bear.
I hope you will come for a visit sometime. The house is small – more on the scale of a cottage – but it is cozy and I am beginning to feel quite comfortable. Erik has been the perfect gentleman. I only ask that you let us know in advance of your visit, as I have found that Erik is not fond of surprises.
With love,
Mellie
With the letter still clutched in hand, he let it fall limply to his lap, gazing once more out the window. Whether Erik cared not for surprises was of no concern to Henry. His visit today was unannounced and intentionally so. Why should he give the man a chance to prepare himself? In catching him unaware, Henry thought he might glimpse something suspicious within the home that would otherwise have been well hidden. It was an unfair advantage, perhaps, but considering the high stakes involved – Melodie's well being – he had no qualms about sidestepping the usual polite protocols.
Lost in thought once more, he wasn't even aware that all motions had ceased and they'd reached the destination until the coachman opened the door.
"I think this is it, Mr. Blythe."
Quickly tucking the letter back into his breast pocket, Henry stepped out into the mild, sunny day, squinting against the brightness. Holding up a hand to his eyes, he gazed beyond the coachman's shoulder to the stone house just ahead.
"I'm not sure how long I'll be, but if you could wait here, Jacob."
The young man nodded. "Of course, sir."
Straightening his back, Henry felt the muscles protesting against the rather long journey he had just endured. He tugged at the lapels of his coat and smoothed away a few wrinkles, making sure he was presentable. Through the gate and up the path he walked, coming to stand in front of the wooden door. Without hesitation, he knocked sharply and waited.
The bark of a dog rang out from inside and then ceased. Several heartbeats later, the door swung inwards and he had to tilt his head upwards slightly to regard the homeowner. The man was dressed neatly in a white, ruffled shirt and black trousers, dark hair combed back with no strand out of place. Half of his brow furrowed deeply – the other was hidden behind a glaringly white mask.
Henry hoped he was successful in maintaining a carefree countenance, mentally kicking aside his shock. Melodie had told him about the mask but he'd forgotten, most likely because it had only been mentioned in passing. Whenever she did speak of Erik, she mostly talked about how she admired his musical sensibilities. He now recalled the fluttering, whispered rumours of a masked man charging away from the Grayson's estate. That had been forgotten as well, since he never paid much attention to idle gossip.
The two men locked stares for another few seconds until Erik finally broke the silence. "Henry," he acknowledged, sounding neither pleased nor upset.
Now it was Henry's turn to frown. "How do you know who I am? We haven't met before."
Clear, appraising eyes of a striking shade of green continued to regard him without so much as a blink. "Melodie has described you very accurately. I also know she wrote to you, so I expected you would be making a call. I didn't, however, think it would be so soon."
Ignoring the very subtle jab at his rather rudely abrupt appearance, Henry asked, "May I come in?"
Erik stepped back, making a slight bow and a sweeping gesture with his hand. "Please do."
Tucking his hat under his arm, Henry crossed the threshold and stood off to the side, his gaze sweeping around what he could view of the interior. His first impression was identical to a word that Melodie had used in her letter – cozy.
"Shall I take your coat and hat?"
Henry nodded, shrugging out of his coat and handing over the items. "Thank you. Is Melodie upstairs?"
"No. She actually went into town with Peter, a young boy that sometimes assists me. I expect they'll be back soon. Make yourself comfortable and I'll put on some tea."
Turning fast on his heel, Erik headed, presumably, to the kitchen. Henry slowly walked about the room before settling on one end of a couch, pushing aside a blue velvet cushion. His eye was drawn to the upright piano, positioned by a large window at the back of the room. Sunlight streamed through the glass, as if deliberately shining down upon this focal point of the home. Fresh cut flowers in a crystal vase adorned the top of the piano. Beside the instrument was a small table with two chairs. The polished surface of the table was barely visible beneath the scattered sheets of staff paper.
Noticing the quill set down by the ink well, Henry surmised that he'd interrupted Erik in the middle of writing; the quill certainly did not belong to Melodie. So it seemed the matter of composing was truly genuine. From his limited observation of things so far, nothing appeared suspect or out of the ordinary. He had to admit, however, he didn't exactly know what he was looking for. What sort of sign would indicate that anything was amiss?
Something entered his vision from the corner of his eye and he turned to look down at the newcomer. A border collie regarded him curiously, head cocked slightly to the side.
"Well, hello there," Henry said softly, extending his hand.
The dog bowed its head and then lifted it, repeating the movement several times. Intelligent, black eyes never strayed from Henry's face until finally, it approached cautiously, sniffing at his fingers. Treated to a scratching behind the ears, the animal seemed to grin, wagging its tail with hearty approval.
"I see Sascha has made a friend."
With the return of her owner, the dog immediately leapt to his side and Erik bent to pat her head.
Henry glanced up at Erik, hearing the amused tone in the man's voice. "She's lovely," he commented. "I noticed the limp. A recent injury?"
Although he thought it was a perfectly innocent question, something hardened in Erik's eyes, the same flinty emotion colouring his voice when he spoke.
"No, it was several years ago. If you want to speak to me alone, I suggest we begin. Melodie could literally walk through that door at any moment."
"Then I shall get straight to the point. Perhaps you would care to sit."
Henry watched as Erik made his way to a chair, Sascha following at his heels, his movements smooth and graceful for such a large man. It made Henry ever aware of his shorter stature and cursed frailty that advancing age had bestowed upon him. Although his body creakily reminded him that more than sixty years of his life had passed, his mind hadn't yet caught up to that fact. He hoped it never would. As he sat facing Erik, he instinctively felt that he was in formidable company. Even without speaking, the man exuded strength and virtually commanded respect. It was a little unnerving, but he only had to remind himself of why he was here to regain his focus. "I would like to know what your intentions are with Melodie."
The statement was met with a quirked eyebrow and a slight curl of the lip. "My intentions? I assure you, my intention is to help write this symphony and nothing more."
"And you find nothing wrong with this living arrangement?" Henry pressed.
"Perhaps you are not aware of all the facts. Melodie requested this arrangement, not me. If you have a problem with it, you should take it up with her."
"Oh, I intend to, but I wanted to speak with you first. You're telling me you did nothing to encourage this?"
"On the contrary, I tried to discourage it initially, but she can be quite persuasive."
Henry felt some of the wind ebbing from his sails; Erik certainly seemed reasonable enough. And yes, Melodie could be quite stubborn and persuasive when she put her mind to it. Perhaps he would try to get to know the man on a more personal level. That might help to ease his concerns.
"What can you tell me about yourself? I would like to get to know you better."
For the first time, Erik showed some discomfort, visibly tensing. "What do you want to know?"
"Where are you from? I detect a slight accent. French?"
"I've spent most of my life in Paris, yes."
"What made you decide to leave?"
Erik did not reply right away, glancing away for a moment before meeting Henry's eyes once more. "Monsieur, I can appreciate what you're trying to do. You obviously care for Melodie very much. But you must understand that the relationship Melodie and I have is strictly professional. We have not discussed our personal lives with each other, so it does not feel right for me to do so with you."
Rather taken aback, Henry wasn't sure what to say. He finally managed to express some disbelief. "Nothing personal at all? And yet…you're residing together?"
"It's true. We both value our privacy, strange as that may sound. For instance, I know that you are an important figure in her life – a paternal figure – but I don't quite understand the relationship. She calls you 'Henry' and has described you as a friend but somehow, I sense there is more to it than that."
This was indeed, a strange situation, and it seemed to have resulted in more questions than answers. But Henry couldn't let this go without expressing one final thought. "Very well. You've made your point, now allow me to make mine. Melodie has mentioned that you've been nothing but a gentleman. I trust that will continue, for if you ever hurt her in any way, there is nowhere in this world that you can hide. I will find you and the consequence will not be pleasant. Have I made myself clear?"
Inclining his head slightly, Erik met his gaze directly. "Very clear."
Having been quietly reclining at Erik's feet, Sascha now bound upwards and trotted towards the door, tail swishing madly. As if this were some sort of sign, Erik stood up also. "Impeccable timing," he murmured. "She's returned."
Seconds later, the door burst open and Melodie appeared, a small boy running up from behind. "Henry?" she called out.
Trying not to trip over the boy and the dog, the pair of them now rolling about on the floor, Henry approached her. "How did you know I was here?" he asked, leaning in to kiss her cheek in greeting.
"I just spoke with Jacob."
"Ahhh." He found himself nodding. Of course, she would recognize the Wentworth's coachman. It was so easy to forget how observant she was. Glancing down at her basket, he noticed some fresh vegetables. "You've gone shopping, I see," he said.
Seeming distracted, she tilted her head. "Hmmm? Oh, yes, I thought I would pick up some items for dinner. Peter, I would like you to meet a friend of mine. This is Henry."
Peter looked up, one hand in the middle of giving Sascha a belly rub, the other waving enthusiastically.
The child's toothy grin was engaging and Henry returned the smile. "Nice to meet you, Peter."
"Is Erik here?" Melodie asked.
Erik had not moved since rising from his chair, choosing to observe from a distance. Though he did not raise his voice, it easily carried across the room. "I'm here," he replied.
"Well, I suppose the two of you have had a chance to chat, then? Henry, I do wish you would have given us notice of your visit."
Henry could plainly see that she was flustered, though he wasn't sure if the colour in her cheeks was due to the sun or her emotions. Before he had a chance to respond, Erik made his opinion known.
"It's quite all right. We've managed to come to an understanding. Perhaps you would care to stay for dinner?"
Although he had to wonder if the sudden graciousness was an act, Henry declined the offer. "That's very kind but I'll have to say no. However, Melodie, I do wish to have a word with you before I leave."
Moving quickly, Erik strode to her side and plucked the basket from her grasp. "You may have your talk in here. Peter, come with me. We'll go out the back door." Without waiting for a reply, he started walking away, throwing a last command over his shoulder. "Sascha, come!"
Scrambling to her feet, the animal obediently trotted after the retreating man's back, with Peter having no choice but to follow along or be left behind.
Henry's gaze returned to Melodie and he was somewhat amused by her demeanour. With arms crossed about her chest and a vague pout of her lips, he was suddenly reminded of a much younger girl – one who knew she was about to be chastised.
"Let us sit down," he said kindly, heading towards the couch once more.
Without so much as a sigh, she sat down beside him and waited for him to begin.
A/N: As always, thank you for the reviews. They inspire me to write. Many thanks to my beta, penkitten.